


in laudem maleficus

by neonunau



Category: NCT (Band), Red Velvet (K-pop Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Angst, F/F, F/M, Witchcraft, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:21:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28895781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonunau/pseuds/neonunau
Summary: your world is turned upside down when you cross paths with a coven of witches. the enchanting and beautiful leader, full of a quiet rage and power, entices you to join and before you realize you are caught up in their world of magic and murder.
Relationships: Bae Joohyun | Irene/Reader, Mark Lee (NCT)/Reader
Kudos: 7





	in laudem maleficus

**Author's Note:**

> [originally posted to neonun-au on tumblr] 
> 
> This was written for fun, in no way to I intend this to be an actual commentary on/portrayal of witchcraft proper

“And then Johnny reached over to Doyoung and–” Mark’s voice drones on across from you as you sit staring out the window of the cafe, watching as the golden leaves of autumn drift down on the gentle wind–coating the otherwise grey sidewalk in a blanket of colour. You bring your latte up to take a sip and nod blankly as Mark continues, paying no attention to the story he’s laughing about–no doubt you’ve heard it before.

The same cafe you’ve always visited, in the same town you’ve always lived in, across the table from the same boy who has been at your side for years–first as a friend, now as a lover. On the outside it has been a natural progression. Your family and neighbours look at you and see a young woman following the only path that makes sense for her. The only path that makes sense in this town, full of people living out this preordained future. On the inside, however, you thrash against the lifestyle with a fury.

With a silent scream that drowns out all thought of the dull future you are barrelling towards.

Mark starts to choke, on his laughter and his coffee, jolting you out of your reverie. With a sigh you push his glass over water over to him and watch as his face turns a cherry red. He gathers himself and looks up at you with wide eyes, “I almost died.”

“You’re fine, Mark, just drink some water.”

The frigid fall air hits you as you step outside of the small cafe, tugging your wool coat tighter around your chest. Mark exhales loudly, watching as his breath fogs up the air in front of him, before turning to you, “it’s cold out!”

You nod in response, casting a glance down the nearly empty street, and turn to walk towards your old station wagon before Mark stops you with an insistent hand clasped around your arm, “wait, ______. Look.”

You halt mid-step and follow his line of sight–eyes scanning over the leaf strewn street until you see them. The group of five girls, clad in black and red, walk side by side down the other side of the road towards the cemetery at the end of the street. You stare after them, mouth agape, as they walk further and further away–coats trailing behind them in the cold air.

One of the girls feels your gaze and turns towards you, your breath catches in your throat as the corners of her mouth quirk up in a small grin. Her face is veiled in the shadow cast by her wide-brimmed black hat, but the sight of her turns something in your chest; a small trill of excitement reverberates through your ribcage and spreads out over your skin in a wave.

She turns away and you continue to stare after them until Mark breaks the silence, “wow, they sure are creepy, huh?” He asks, turning to you.

“Um,” you start, swallowing the lump in your throat, “yeah, I guess.” The fluttering of your heart continues long after you’ve climbed into your car and begun the journey back to Mark’s familiar apartment–the image of her smile lingering in your mind’s eye.

–

Steam bursts up from the pitcher of milk as you hold it under the wand on the espresso machine–heating up your face as it froths to a fine foam. The cafe is busy as usual on a Friday afternoon; regulars and passerbys alike mingling in the small shop, chatting and laughing while they sip on their lattes and cappuccinos. You slide the drink across the counter to the older blonde lady with a customer service smile and turn to wipe down the old espresso machine.

“_____?” Perking up at the sound of your name, you turn towards the speaker.

At the till a young woman stands smiling at you. Her pale face shines in the light of the afternoon seeping in through the cafe windows, framed by fine black hair. The image of her in the fading light of the day yesterday flashes into your mind and you watch as she drums blood red fingernails against the countertop.

After a moment she quirks an eyebrow up in curiosity and clears her throat–breaking the spell you’ve found yourself under and you drop the cloth you had been gripping before rushing to the till. “Welcome, I–um,” your words wither under her direct gaze and you inhale a shaky breath before continuing, “how did you know my name?”

With a wry smile she points to the name-tag pinned to your apron and you feel yourself shrivel in embarrassment, releasing a dry laugh in a vain attempt to hide it from her.

“Aren’t you going to take my order?” She asks, suppressing a laugh at your flustered state. No doubt used to the reactions her ethereal beauty garners on a daily basis.

“Oh! O-of course,” you stumble, wiping your palms against your milk-stained apron before tapping at the touchscreen to wake the system, “what can I get for you?”

“Hmm,” she pauses, considering the chalk menu hanging above your head, “what do you recommend?”

“Uh, the caramel macchiato is pretty good if you like sweet things,” you lift your gaze from the screen to judge her reaction, “or if you don’t, you can’t really go wrong with a cappuccino.”

“One of those, then,” she nods, decisive, “a medium.”  
“Of course, right away,” tapping the order into the screen, she slides the cash over to you and drops the change into the near empty tip jar. “Can I get your name? For the drink?”

“Irene,” she answers, following you along the other side of the counter, watching as you move to the espresso machine and start the process of crafting her drink.

You are keenly aware of her eyes on you–following the movements of your hands, your body–as you go through the familiar motions of grinding the coffee beans and frothing the milk. Something you have done thousands of times before suddenly feels like a brand new endeavour under the heat of her gaze. ‘What is wrong with me?’ you think, scolding yourself in silence as the silver pitcher shakes in your hands.

“What time do you get off?” The question startles you out of your internal monologue and you stare up at her–wide eyed with surprise.

“What?”

“When does your shift end?” She reaffirms her question, slowly, talking over the sound of the hissing steam and endless chatter of the cafe.

“Umm, 5:30…” you answer, pouring the milk foam out into the waiting cup, the white liquid mixes with the brown of the espresso and you curse your shaking hands as you splatter some of it over the counter.

“Good,” she nods, smiling as you slide the cup across to her, “I will pick you up then.”

Her expression is amused while you stare at her, mouth agape, thoughts crashing around in your mind, “why?” the only question remaining inside the cacophony of your brain.

“Why not?” She laughs, swiping a finger through the foam of the cappuccino and bringing it up to her lips.

“I–” a brief pause, trying to push the words out through the dryness coating your throat, “I’m supposed to meet my boyfriend after work.” Your weekly movie date with Mark flashes into your mind, and you push down the feeling of regret that rises like bile in your throat at the thought.

“You could do that,” she nods, watching you with a knowing smile, “or you could come with me. Up to you.”

You flounder, torn between your sense of loyalty and responsibility as a girlfriend and the strange sense of enticement you feel towards this strange woman. As if she has a center of gravity and you’ve stepped into orbit around her. She watches the flurry of emotions cross your face with amusement, “I’ll be here at 5:30.” It’s a statement, not a question, and all you can do is nod dumbly after her as she turns on her heel to leave.

“Wait!” Noticing the cappuccino left behind on the counter you yell after her, raising the cup towards her.

“Oh,” she says, tilting her head to the side, “I don’t drink coffee.”

Staring after her you watch as she disappears out the front door and walks down the sidewalk until the tails of her long, black coat are finally out of sight.

“Excuse me?” A woman calls impatiently out from in front of the till and you snap to attention–pushing away the image of Irene to the depths of your mind.

–

_Not going to be able to make it tonight, something came up_

You send the text to Mark, leaning up against the wall of the cafe as you wait for Irene to show, and slip the phone into your bag without waiting for a reply. A black car pulls up to the curb in front of you, windows tinted a dark grey. The momentary urge to run and hide overwhelms your body, seizing your heart in your chest. Anxiety at the thought of being in close proximity to someone who you’ve only just met but who has already made a burning impression in your mind.

The window rolls down and Irene smiles at you from the driver’s seat, “get in.”

With one glance down the deserted sidewalk, you open the door and slide into the passenger seat next to her, “hello.”

“Glad you could join us,” a bright voice calls from the back seat. You spin your head around to see two girls smiling back at you, their long black hair falling like curtains. One of them leans forward and extends a hand for you to take, “Joy.” She offers her name with a wink before sliding back into her seat and gesturing for the other girl to introduce herself.

“Yeri,” she nods towards you with a bright smile, but keeps her hands resting firmly atop her thighs.

“Hi,” you respond, shock at the unexpected company fading from your mind, “_____.”

Irene pulls out onto the road, guiding the car past the few other vehicles dotting the streets. You watch out the window as you pass by Mark’s apartment building. He bobs along the sidewalk towards the lobby, brown bag of take out clasped in his hands, and disappears inside. You resist the urge to laugh at the sight; any other Wednesday you would be walking alongside him with your own bag of food clasped tight in hand.

The car takes a sudden turn down a narrow alleyway and you brace yourself against the dash to keep from slamming into the door. A small, strangled yelp escapes your lips–eliciting a bout of laughter from the backseat.

“You good?” Joy asks, patting your shoulder in mock reassurance. You nod in reply, offering a shaky laugh of your own and adjust your position in the leather seat.

“Where are we going?” The realization dawns on you finally that you know nothing about these girls beyond their names. That maybe ditching your boyfriend of two years because one beautiful woman smiled at you was perhaps a _bad_ idea after all. Maybe, despite the fluttering in your heart when you glance sideways at Irene, you would have been better off rewatching The Goonies in the comfort of Mark’s familiar apartment.

“Just to the farmhouse,” Irene replies, casting you a sideways smile as she accelerates onto the highway out of town. The familiar buildings sink into the horizon behind you as you drive further away from your home and deeper into the unknown. The option of turning back, of asking Irene to just pull over and let you out, disappears along with it.

“Farmhouse?”

“It’s abandoned,” Yeri perks up from the back seat, you watch through the rear view mirror as her eyes take on a glint of mischief. “Has been for years. People think it’s haunted, so no one really goes out there.”

“Is it?” You ask, swallowing down the last of your lingering nerves and rising to her challenge.

“Is it what?”

“Haunted.”

She laughs, delighted by the shift in tone and shakes her head, “no, it’s just us. No ghosts.”

“Not yet, anyway,” Joy adds with a smirk. You spin back to face the front as the car leaves the highway and takes a turn down a gravel road, a cloud of dust looms behind you as Irene drives ahead in silence.

Her eyes remain fixed on the road ahead, expression unreadable. Out of the corner of your eye you study her face as she drives, wondering why exactly she asked you to come as she hasn’t really said more than five words since you got in the car. The cloud of confusion and anxiety gripping your brain is one you haven’t felt since your last high school crush and you try and shake it off by taking in the details of the area around you. The car is void of all personal touches–sleek, black interior to match the sleek, black exterior. The world outside the car, whipping by your windows, is similarly void of anything. Wide, cloud marred blue skies stretch out over endless corn and wheat fields–plowed clean after the fall harvest.

Another sharp turn and Irene drives down a tree-lined driveway towards what you can only assume is the farmhouse. It sits still and empty before you, a dot at the end of the long lane, before looming above you in all of its rundown glory. At one time it would have been white, but over years of neglect and misuse the siding has taken on a distinctly grey tint. A porch wraps around the house like a hug, a few abandoned deck chairs collect dust as they sit on the worn floorboards. There’s a faint glow inside the front window and as you climb out of the passenger seat of the car, you wonder who could possibly be inside.

Joy and Yeri skip ahead to the front door and you wander behind them, startling when Irene suddenly links her arm with yours. “Nervous?” She asks, watching you with a smile.

“No,” you lie, “should I be?”

She laughs, patting your arm, as you walk up the porch step towards the door in tandem. “No, we’re just hanging out.”

“Hey!” A new voice splits through the laughter in the air as you enter and you have to restrain yourself from jumping at the sound. “You came!” Another girl of a similar age bounds towards you, swinging a portable camping lamp in her hand. Her smile is wide and welcoming and you relax at the sight as she comes to a stop in front of you.

“Yeah, umm…” you glance over her, trying to reconcile her familiar greeting with your memory but come up entirely short. “Have we met before?”

“No, no,” she laughs, tossing back her white blonde hair, “I’m Wendy. Irene said you would be coming to join us.”

“Not that we had much say in it.”

“Seulgi…” Irene warns from beside you, tone stern. Seulgi stands up against the far wall of the living room, leaning against the old brick fireplace with a grim expression. Nervousness blooms renewed in your gut as you watch her push away from the wall and give you a once over before reluctantly extending her hand to you.

“Seulgi,” she states her name, before dropping your hand and wandering towards the back wall of the dimly lit room.

“Okay!” Wendy chirps, attempting to diffuse the tension that has seeped into the air around you. “Who wants food?”

Over time the evening sunlight streaming through the dingy windows of the abandoned house dims to a thin veil and you sit in a circle surrounding the only lamp in the house, passing back and forth plates of the snacks that Wendy had brought with her in her old blue cooler bag. You listen and laugh along as Yeri and Joy trade stories of their adventures from their hometowns, and sit enraptured as Irene spins a tale from the time at boarding school where she managed to convince the entire faculty that she had not, in fact, filled the entire teachers lounge with water despite the trail of footprints leading to her dorm room.

The laughter and the stories drag on into the night, and you begin to open up as well. Sharing a story of the time Mark had “accidentally” fallen into the river to get out of gym class.

“Wait, whose Mark?” Yeri asks, face scrunched in confusion.

“Oh, my boyfriend,” you reply, the hesitation in your tone startling you. Why did you feel unsure about that? Nervous, even? You’ve been seeing him for two years, he was undoubtedly your boyfriend. Still, the feeling persists as Yeri makes a mock gagging noise across the circle.

“Boyfriend? Who needs one of those,” she reaches for the last brownie square, leaving a trail of chocolate crumbs on the old oak floor.

“He’s…nice,” you offer a meagre defense in Mark’s honour, but she just rolls her eyes causing another peal of laughter to ripple through the circle. You join in, pushing the image of your boyfriend’s face to the back of your mind.

The laughter fades after a moment and Irene turns to look out the window as the last light of the day sets beyond the horizon. “Okay girls,” she says, clapping her hands together before rising to stand, “are we ready?”

“Now?” Seulgi asks, speaking for the first time since her curt introduction earlier. She casts you a withering glance before looking back up towards Irene, “with her?”

“Yes, with her. I said I wanted a sixth,” she replies, “she’s perfect.”

 _Perfect?_ You think, _perfect for what?_ Some plan has been concocted in silent whispers out of the range of your hearing, something even you were not privy to but evidently were to be involved in. You rack your brain for any ideas, but nothing comes to mind. No hints or clues offered either during Irene’s introduction to you earlier in the day, or during the hours spent talking with them on the floor of this old house.

The confusion is evident on your face, and Joy leans over to nudge you in the side with her elbow, “you’ll see.” She says with a wink, and the sincerity of her smile softens your nerves momentarily before Irene extends a hand to help you off the floor. You take it, heart hitching in your chest at the feeling of her soft skin against your own, and follow her outside into the field beside the house.

A pile of wood sits a short walk away from the side of the farmhouse, likely scavenged from the surrounding woods and old barn to the back of the house. You watch as Wendy and Yeri toss on a few more planks of plywood before they each strike a match and set the pile ablaze. It burns slowly at first, gentle flames wicking up the sides of the wood, but within the span of a minute the fire burns high into the air–casting an amber glow over the surrounding field and warming your skin to the touch.

You follow behind Irene and Seulgi as they march towards the bonfire. Irene directs you to stand a few feet away from her facing the flames; confusion and curiosity cloud your mind and you comply without thought or protest. The other girls settle similarly in a circle, and you watch each of their faces settle into focused attention, bathed in the orange light, as Irene holds court.

“Sisters, we stand here tonight in the light of the full moon to welcome a new member of the coven, should she choose to accept the ceremony offered.” She turns to you, skin reflecting the flames in front of you and smiles. “Do you accept?”

“I’m sorry,” you start, breaking out of the daze that had been gripping you throughout the night, “what exactly is going on?”

“We’re witches!” Yeri shouts over the flames, tone gleeful as she laughs.

“We want to welcome you into the sisterhood,” Irene confirms, nodding. “Should you want to be a part of it, that is.”

“Witches?” You ask, incredulous, as you stare at Irene–silently begging for more information, for answers. “Why me?”

“Hmm, let’s just say I see something in you,” she grins, cocking her head to the side. You watch the glint of fire in her eyes and feel something twist in your heart at the sight. An excitement that you haven’t felt for years churning inside of you. “Something that maybe you haven’t even seen in yourself yet.”

“What is it?” You ask, breathless.

“We can help you discover that,” she reaches out a hand towards you and you take it, feeling her squeeze your fingers in reassurance and comfort. The knot in your chest tightens again and you breathe in a warm, shaky breath.

It’s all too much, you think to yourself. Days ago you weren’t even aware that these girls lived near you. Between your regular rounds from home, to work, to the corner store, and back again you had never run into them. Your life had been consumed up until this moment with indecision and acceptance. Indecision on where to go, and acceptance that maybe you were better of just staying put in this small town where nothing ever happened, sitting on the couch next to the same boy with whom nothing ever changed, eating the same take out meal for the third time that week.

Now, standing under the moonlight bathed in the amber light of the fire, everything has shifted. Irene’s dark brown eyes bore into yours as she awaits your answer and you feel your world tilting dangerously towards hers–towards her. Like she has taken your center of gravity and grabbed hold of it tightly in her firm grip.

You know that if you said no now, if you left and went back to your life as it was before this, you could right this center. You could return. Any step further towards Irene, towards the possibility there in the palm of her hand will only push you deeper into the unknown. The time for indecision is over.

“Yes,” you say, voice a whisper over the crackling of the wood engulfed in flames, “I accept.”

Her grin broadens and your heart soars at the sight, feeling the knot in your chest dissolve. Out of the corner of your eye you see Seulgi’s mouth set in a tight line, her displeasure at your answer is evident but any concerns that might otherwise have been aroused by the sight are washed away as Irene walks up to you and wraps an arm around your shoulder.

“It is settled, then,” she squeezes you with her arm briefly, tugging you into her side. “We will begin the ceremony.”

A glint of silver shines reflected in the firelight and you watch with wide eyes as Irene pulls a dagger out from a sheath on her thigh. Eyes closed, she reaches forward and thrusts the dagger into the flames–letting it linger a moment before pulling back and making a small incision on each of her palms. She passes it to Wendy next, and one by one they all follow suit, slicing small incisions into the center of their hands before the dagger makes its way around the circle and is finally outstretched towards you.

Nervous, you wrap your fingers around the hilt, feeling the weight of the metal heavy in your hand as you accept it from Joy. You glance at Irene, uncertainty plain on your face.

“Just a small cut,” she assures, “just enough to let some of the blood flow out.”

With a shaky inhale you point the dagger towards your palm and let it sink into the soft flesh. It stretches at first, molding around the sharp point of the knife and remaining stubbornly unbroken; you apply a little more pressure until finally, with one sharp incision, the skin yields and you see the blood bloom around the silver tip.

Quickly, you do the same to the other and pass the dagger back to Irene. She slides it back into the sheath and holds her hand out towards you, “join hands.” She calls, and everyone closes the circle around the fire–palm to bloodied palm.

“From blood we are made, to blood we end. Join us, heart and soul, together in the bond of sisterhood and let no man nor outside force break it. This life we choose of our own free will, to give out service unto thee, and so it is.”

“And so it is,” the voices join the crackling of the fire, ascending towards the sky, and you feel a wave of chills ripple over your body despite the heat. The fire sparks, growing larger and larger before your eyes before it bursts in flames taller than your bodies–stretching up towards the black of the night. You watch as the shapes formed in the blaze of orange and yellow twist and transform in front of your eyes before the entire fire blinks out in an instant and you’re left standing in moonlight, hand in hand with your new sisters.

“It is done,” Irene confirms, nodding, before dropping your hand. The cold night air hits the wounds like a shock, and you quickly stuff your palms into your pockets for warmth.

“Wicked,” Yeri laughs as she hops over to wrap her arms around you in a tight hug. “Welcome to the club,” her smile is bright, honest; you’re surprised at how much the approval of someone you’ve only met earlier today already sparks a fire of happiness in your heart.

“Yeah,” Joy nods in agreement, clapping her hand on your shoulder, “let’s go get pizza now.”

You linger behind, following slowly as the girls dance back towards the house to gather up their things. Seulgi keeps pace beside you in silence until you’re a few feet from the front porch, she places a firm hand on your arm, stalling you in place. The laughter of the other girls has disappeared behind the front door and you stand in the darkness in front of her piercing gaze.

“We’re sisters now,” she says, tightening her grip on your arm, “so let me give you a word of warning.”

Nerves settle in your throat in a dry lump, blocking any words that might otherwise have come out. You nod, swallowing hard.

“Don’t get too invested in Irene,” she says, her tone is serious and painted with years of knowledge and information. A stark contrast to your bright naivety of your new acquaintance. “She’s beautiful, but she’s dangerous.”

The front door swings open and light from the lamp floods out over your bodies. Seulgi drops her hand from your arm and you follow her line of sight to see Irene standing in the doorway. “_____,” she calls out to you and you can already feel yourself leaning away from Seulgi and towards her–warning entirely forgotten. “Are you coming?”

You nod and head up the steps towards the house, feeling the heat of Seulgi’s gaze as it bores into your back.

–

“Where were you last night?” Mark asks through a mouthful of fried chicken as you sit splayed out on your living room couch. The Goonies plays on the TV for the millionth time–the sounds of the young actors shrieking and laughing creating a bizarre soundscape in the apartment. “You never replied to my texts.”

“Oh, sorry, I forgot to check my phone,” you respond, staring unfocused at the screen in front of you. “I was out with friends.”

“Friends?” He asks, face screwed up in confusion. “Who? You never hang out with anyone except me,” he lets out a small peal of laughter but the accusation sinks into your chest bitterly. He wasn’t wrong. Before Irene, you really only ever saw Mark outside of work and the rest of the time was spent either avoiding phone calls from your mom, or sitting along and rewatching the same tv shows in silence–wishing you were somewhere else.

“They’re new friends,” you say, curt, and he raises his hands up in defense.

“Alright, alright, I believe you,” he laughs, reaching for the last drumstick in the box before you have a chance to take it. “So what are we doing tonight?”

“Oh, I was going to hang out with them again tonight, actually…” you watch Mark out of the corner of your eye as glances at you in completely unveiled confusion. His face is an open book as always.

“Is this gonna be like an every night kind of thing?”

“And so what if it is?” You bite back, bristling at his tone.

“I dunno,” he mumbles, casting you a weary glance, “you’re my girlfriend, shouldn’t we like…be together?”

 _No_ , the thought comes automatically. Hitting you like a freight train of realization–maybe you’re only still with Mark because it’s easier. Easier to remain, to keep the status quo, than to branch out on your own. Irene’s face swims up in your vision–her deep brown eyes, the delicate line of her jaw, the ruby red lips. Your chest tightens at the image, fingers tingling with the memory of her hand in yours. Mark is easy, comfortable–familiar–but Irene represents to much possibility, so much excitement.

You watch his soft brown eyes as they search your own for your response and you swallow the thought down, “we’re always together, Mark. Me having friends to hang out with now isn’t going to change that.”

“Alright,” he nods, taking another bite off his drumstick, “I’ll see if Johnny’s got any plans.”

–

“Okay, now just concentrate,” Irene’s voice floats into your hearing and you narrow your gaze on the flickering flame of the candle in front of you. A sharp pain sits in the back of your dry eyes–sore from time spent sitting focused on this one small spark of light in front of you. “Think about how you want the flame to extinguish. Imagine it blinking out of existence.”

You nod your understanding, and call the image up in your mind. A yellow light, there once second and gone the next in a small cloud of grey smoke. You can see the smoke rising from the wick of the candle, twisting in the air for a moment before dissipating entirely. The candlelight in front of you flickers again, and you try to match the images together.

“It’s _never_ going to happen at this rate,” Yeri groans from the corner, breaking your concentration.

“It will,” Irene reassures you, ignoring Yeri’s protests. “Concentrate, ______, I believe in you.”

With a deep inhale, you refocus your gaze, conjuring the image back into your mind’s eye. The image of a flameless candle. You can feel a gentle throbbing through your veins, a tingling of power running in your bloodstream and itching at the tips of your fingers. You exhale, ignoring the pain in your eyes, and stare at the flame.

In the blink of an eye, it disappears.

“Holy shit,” Joy remarks, impressed, as the thin trail of black smoke winds up from the wick where the flame has been blinked out. “She did it.”

“Finally!” Yeri shouts gleefully towards the ceiling. “Can we go get dinner now?”

“I brought snacks, you ingrate, eat them,” Wendy nudges Yeri in the side, gesturing to the tupperware containers littered over the wood flooring.

“I’m tired of your healthy snacks, I want a hamburger.”

Their bickering voices fade to a dull thrum around you as you stare at the candle in shock. _I actually did it,_ you think, wonder coursing through your body. _What else can I do?_ If it was possible to extinguish a flame with only a thought, was it also possible to start a fire? What else were you capable of? What were _they_ capable of?

Irene tugs you to your feet, her smile bright and beaming with life, “well done.” She says, squeezing your hand, “I knew you could do it.” The praise and assurance in her voice bathes you in warmth and you return her smile gratefully.

“Irene,” Seulgi calls out through the fog surrounding you, drawing your attention back to the room you’re still standing in. “Are we going?”

She nods, “you guys go ahead, we’ll meet up with you later.” Irene glances towards you, fastening you to the spot as the others trickle out of the farmhouse towards Wendy’s car. The red glow of the taillights disappear down the driveway and you’re left alone with Irene–her fingers still softly intertwined with yours.

“You know why you’re here, right?” She asks, directing your attention from the feeling of her hand in yours and up to meet her eyes.

“No,” you reply, voice soft as if anything louder than a whisper might break whatever spell she has you under.

“Because you and I are the same,” she replies, bringing her hand up to brush a wayward strand of hair from your forehead. The tips of her fingers leave a trail of sparks across your skin and you think you see the moon in her eyes. “You have so much power inside of you, _____, you just have to trust it.”

“How,” your voice breaks and you hesitate, swallowing the lump of nerves in your throat. “How do you know that?”

“I can see it, it’s in your eyes,” she traces a finger over your jawline–slowly, deliberately. You feel the blood rushing to your head, clouding your thoughts as you bask in her unwavering gaze. “I can feel it humming here.” She drops her hand, letting it rest over your thundering heart and you feel pulled towards her. Drawn in by some magnetic force. She leans forward, lips brushing against yours softly at first–exploring. She tastes like honey and wine and you lean in for more, eager to feel her arms around you.

A sound calls out through the haze you’re in, an insistent buzzing inside of your pocket. Irene pulls back, bemused smirk playing on her lips as you groan and pull your phone out to check the message.

_Hey, you’ll never guess what Johnny said today! Are you home? I’m bringing chicken_

“The boyfriend?” She asks and you nod in confirmation, a sigh escaping your lips. “You can do better than him, you know.” She asserts before gathering her bags and heading towards the door, a glance cast over her shoulder indicating your should follow.

The car rumbles down the rural gravel road in the dark, headlights illuminating the empty space ahead as you drive back towards town. Irene keeps her eyes trained on the road as she drives; you watch her profile shift in the dim light, the taste of her still fresh on your tongue.

“Irene,” you start, breaking the silence, “how long have you been doing…all of this?”

“What,” she asks with a laugh, “witchcraft?”

“Yeah, that.”

She hums, considering her answer, “I could say forever. It’s always been there, as it is for most people. It’s in the maternal ancestry for millennia.” You nod, waiting for her to continue, “but really, I’ve been practising the craft for about five years.”

“Why did you start?” Curiosity weaves through your thoughts; you want to know more about her. Everything. Her history, her hopes, her dreams. You want to sink into her thoughts and dance through her words. The taste of her lips on yours awoke a desire that had long been asleep inside of you and now you were drunk with the yearning to chase it to whatever end.

“Power,” she responds, simply. One word that holds so much weight–the dreams of so many trapped in 5 letters. “Power and agency. You grow up in this world as a woman, surrounded by men who tell you you will never be anything more than what your looks have to offer them, and you begin to believe it. You feel, maybe they’re right. Maybe all I am is beauty.”

The car pulls off the rural road and onto the highway, the lights of town rise up in the night sky before you as you drive ever closer. You want to tell her to pull over, to park on the side of the road and sit with you for a minute–for an hour, for a day. Forever.

Instead you listen, hanging on to every word she speaks as if it holds the secrets to unlock her soul. “But it’s all a lie. Beauty is a construct created by those very men to diminish us, to keep us small and obedient. I’m tired of being obedient. All men have ever done is disappoint me. Fathers, teachers, brothers–they have this birthright of power just given to them and what do they do with it? Nothing. They waste it away and only ever use it to bend us to their will. But they don’t know what we’re capable of, when we cast aside their lies. We can hold the same power.”

A chill creeps in the car, running down your spine as she speaks–her words carefully chosen and sharpened over years of determination.

“You know what I mean, right?” She asks suddenly, glancing at you through the darkness, “you’ve felt it as well.”

“Yeah,” you nod, “I have.” Years spent following your father’s orders, following Mark’s dreams, standing in the shadows and being a passive player in your own life rise up before you now like a mirror. Staring you in the face in the glow of wasted potential.

“See?” She says, smirk playing on the corner of her lips, “I told you–we’re the same.” Your phone buzzes in your pocket again, the same insistent tone, but you ignore it. “And this boyfriend of yours–”

“Mark.”

“Mark,” she hums his name like a curse, “you know he’s the same. He might not be a bad person, but it’s only a matter of time. A matter of time until the disappointment sinks in.”

 _It already has,_ you think, staring out the passenger window as Irene winds the car through the streets of town.

–

Days bleed into weeks and you find yourself spending more and more of your free time at the old farmhouse. Time spent practising your new craft as well as just revelling in the company of your new friends–in the lightness they bring into your world. Your days take on a new life, no longer grey and monotonous, but colourful and filled with laughter and the company of people with whom you feel you finally belong.

And there, standing in the middle of everything like a lighthouse at sea, stands Irene–vibrant and humming with life. The topic of the kiss is never broached but it lies there between you, dormant and waiting in the tips of your fingers. Every brush of skin on skin is a reminder. Her hand as it lands on your thigh during a ritual, your eyes on hers as you watch her through flames. Every breath is a reminder.

Irene shines through your life, illuminating the dull grey that used to surround you. You soak in every moment spent with her, basking in it and praying for eternity. The grey swims back in, inevitably, when you go back home. Laying in bed next to Mark, you imagine her there. Focusing the image until his hands grow slender and fine–they’re no longer his lips on your skin, they’re Irene’s.

The air in the farmhouse is sweltering as you lay in a puddle on the floor, fanning yourself with an old newspaper. Fall temperatures were set to hit an all time high this week and you were dreading it.

Yeri flops down on the floor next to you, leaning over to catch some of the breeze from your makeshift fan. “Just kill me now, please,” she groans, wiping a bead of sweat off her forehead.

“Too much effort,” you reply, adjusting the newspaper so the wind hits both of your faces.

“I’ll kill you if it means it’ll stop this goddamn heatwave,” Joy sits propped up against the far wall of the living room, directly under the open window in a vain attempt at catching whatever breeze might blow through the windows.

“That might work,” Irene comments, raising her eyes from the old tome she’s been pouring over for the past hour in relative silence.

“Ha, funny,” Yeri sticks her tongue out at the older girl and pushes herself off the floorboards with a groan.

“Okay, maybe we won’t kill you, but I’ve been doing a lot of research and it seems like the key to unlocking our full potential as witches is a human sacrifice.”

“Will that stop the heatwave?” Joy asks through a mouthful of ice water.

“It might, we’ll be pretty unstoppable at that point.” She shrugs, turning to the next page.

“Irene,” Seulgi’s voice cuts through the haze of heat in the room–stern and cold. “You can’t be serious.”

“Why not?”

“That’s murder.”

“Only by today’s standards,” she responds lightly and you sit up to evaluate her expression. Alarm at the proposition ringing through your body. Irene shrugs off Seulgi’s concern and shuts the cover of the book, meeting her gaze. You sit up, straightening your posture, and watch as they glare daggers at each other from across the room.

“And what other standards should we be living by then?” Seulgi deadpans, not backing down from the challenge presented in Irene’s eyes.

“Our own,” she responds simply, as if it needs no further explanation.

You glance around the room, apart from Seulgi everyone sits relaxed and passive on the floor of the old house–no sense of tension or shock painting their faces, no change in the atmosphere. Your eyes drift back to Irene as she sits, expression serious and calculating, and taps a finger against the leather cover of the book in front of her. Yeri yawns and stretches against the oak floor, fanning herself lazily with her hand as the staredown continues. The dissonant atmosphere builds a knot of tension in your stomach. You can feel yourself holding your breath, but cannot force yourself to release it, so you sit still and listen.

“And what exactly are ‘our’ standards, Irene? Murder? Are we throwing away morality entirely in the pursuit of power?”

“Our standards,” Irene narrows her gaze at Seulgi, voice shooting poisoned daggers, “are what we make them. Nothing is gained but through sacrifice, Seulgi, be that our sacrifice or someone else’s.”

“It’s not sacrifice, it’s murder,” Seulgi drops her gaze from Irenes, looking around the room for help–any help–but everyone remains silent. Unbothered. She meets your gaze last, brown eyes boring into yours, demanding you speak up. “_____, do you condone this? Murder?”

“I mean….it’s all hypothetical isn’t it?” You reply, voice shaking ever so slightly. The heat of the day has all but disappeared from your thoughts as you sit trapped between two opposing forces. “We aren’t really going to kill anyone, it’s just…talk.” Your eyes drift over to Irene, tracing up over her chest, her neck, the delicate curve of her jaw. You meet her gaze and the cold stare softens, a slight upturn at the corners of her mouth. The tense knot in your stomach loosens and dissolves into the heat of the day.

“Of course,” she says, “it’s just all hypothetical.”

The heat of the week dissipates slowly, bleeding back into a more seasonal autumn chill, and with it goes all mention of the tense conversation in the farmhouse. The days pass as they had before and you begin to wonder if you hadn’t just imagined the entire exchange. It’s never brought up again, by either Seulgi or Irene, so you slip back into normalcy–practising spells and enchantments with Yeri, learning herbalism with Wendy, and ignoring the way your heart lurches towards Irene everytime her skin brushes over your own.

–

The scent of cinnamon and nutmeg dance through the air in the kitchen of your small apartment, bathing you in the scent of winter and warmth. You lean over the pot of mulled wine and inhale deeply, savouring the way it seeps into your senses. Keys turn in the door, jangling your attention free from the constant stirring and you look up as Mark steps in–shaking some snowflakes free from his wind blown hair.

“Wow, it smells good in here,” he exclaims, tossing his coat across the couch and coming up behind you–resting his chin on your shoulder as he watches you stir the concoction. “What are you making?”

“Mulled wine,” you state, shaking him off your shoulder to grab another stick of cinnamon from the cupboard, “Wendy gave me the recipe.”

“Oh,” his face twists into a scowl. “Is Wendy one of those girls you’ve been hanging out with?”

“Yes,” you rest the wooden spoon on top of the pot, “why?”

“I don’t know,” he drawls, running his hand down your arm, “they’re kind of…weird, aren’t they?”

“How so?” Levelling him with the most intimidating stare you can muster, you shake him off and cross your arms–ready to pounce on whatever judgement he is forming in his mind.

“They’re kind of creepy,” noticing the anger brewing behind the glare he steels himself for an argument and persists, “all they do is wander around dressed in black and hang out in the cemetery. That’s weird, isn’t it?”

“What so it’s a crime to wear black now?”

“No, it’s not _just_ that,” he affirms, expression still twisted in a cocktail of confusion and frustration as he tries to find the words to express his thoughts, “it’s…well everything. And all you do now is hang out with them, it’s like I never see you.”

“Oh, well excuse me for finding people that like me,” you toss your hands up, releasing some of the steam that had been building up inside of you, “ _excuse me_ for not catering to you 24/7.”

“That’s not what I–” Mark stutters, eyes widening as you cut him off with a jab to the chest.

“I know what you mean, Mark Lee, we’ve been dating for almost two years now, you’re not that hard to read,” he watches silently as you continue on your tirade, finally spilling free all the thoughts that had been brewing in your mind over the past few months. “You were so used to me not having any sort of social life outside of our relationship, and now that I have _actual friends_ , you’re jealous. You can’t stand the thought of my independence. It’s why you got me the job at the cafe, to keep me in this town. It’s why you’re now trying to guilt trip me into ditching my friends, trying to make me think that they’re these strange, dangerous people. It’s all so that you can pad your ego and pretend like everything is perfect.”

“Hey, I never forced you to stay here,” he rebuts your accusation but you’re too heated to hear him. Irene’s words float through your mind, mingling with your own repressed frustrations and bringing everything to a boil. Mark shudders

“Guess what Mark? It’s not perfect,” you continue, anger sharpening to a knife point–not noticing as the kitchen lights flicker overhead, “I’m sick of just being the _girlfriend_ or the _barista_. I’m tired of only being noticed in relation to you and your life.”

“_____–” Mark warns, watching your fury burst in front of him like a flame–a bonfire of anger directed towards him. He cowers under your ire, watching as the ceiling lights strobe on and off as you stalk towards him across the vinyl floor.

“You know what, Mark?” You take a heavy step towards him, lifting a finger in accusation, “I’m sick of this.”

The lights hum and buzz with energy, flickering on and off, on and off.

“And I’m sick of _you_.”

One final buzz, the lights spark to a brilliant brightness, blinding, for a brief moment before with a loud snap the bulbs break and rain down on you in a shower of glass.

“Fuck,” Mark yells, grabbing his coat from the back of the chair, “I don’t know what going on _____, but this is insane!”

Mark races out of the apartment, leaving you behind in the dark. Limbs shaking from adrenaline and fear. 

–

Irene opens the door to her house, eyeing you curiously as you stand on her doorstep. Eyes wide, hands still shaking in the aftermath of the fight–the sound of the light bulb smashing resounding through your skull.

“Irene…”

She shushes you with a shake of her head, opening the door wider and ushering you inside.

Irene slides a mug of tea towards you and you take it gratefully in your shaking hands–relishing the warmth seeping out through the ceramic and soothing your nerves. She sits next to you on the small velvet loveseat, resting a hand on your thigh in comfort. “What happened?”

“We had a fight,” you mumble, eyes fixed on the steam as it curls out from your mug–swirling in the air before you.

“You and Mark?”

You nod and take a sip of the tea, allowing the taste of the herbal mixture to envelop your senses.

“About what?”

“You were right,” you turn to her, meeting her dark brown gaze, noting the small shift in her expression from concern to knowing. A flicker of triumph alights in her eyes. “You were right about him, he doesn’t care. He doesn’t know me,” with a sigh you take another sip of the warm liquid, “not anymore…”

“Of course he doesn’t, how could he possibly ever understand?” She takes the mug from you, setting it down on the coffee table before taking your hands in her own–her thumb rubbing small circles over your skin–and tugs you to stand in front of her. “He was made for a simple life. Made for monotony and to get married and have children and die a boring death. A life that will never be remembered for anything greater,” the candles on her alter flicker to life as she pierces you with her gaze. You hands prickle and spark in her grasp and you stand transfixed, watching as her eyes burn with unspoken magic.

“How could he know the potential we hold,” her grip on your hands tighten and you lean in, feeling your own energy condense into the space between you. “The potential you hold.”

“Irene,” you mouth, breathless in the vacuum of time surrounding you, “what’s happening to me?” She takes a step forward, forcing you back against the wall of her apartment. Her dark gaze bores into your own and she brings a hand up to run her finger down the side of your face, dragging it down the soft skin of your neck and bringing her palm to rest at the base of your clavicle. A shiver runs down your spine and you inhale sharply, skin prickling under her touch. She moves closer to you, leaning in until your bodies are almost flush against each other.

“It’s the power that courses through your veins,” she says, eyes hooded and dark as she presses you up against the wall. “Can’t you feel it? Thrumming through you. Don’t you feel…” Irene traces a finger down your bare arm as she speaks, eyes never leaving yours, “alive with it? Intoxicated? Don’t you feel like you could do anything, be anything,” you swallow loudly, trying to hide the pounding of your heart against your chest as she leans in closer to whisper in your ear. “Don’t you feel like you could have anything you desire?”

You nod, head clouded with the scent of her so close to you, and she smiles against your ear. A small movement, almost imperceptible. The next moment you feel her lips on yours, sweet and salty, the taste of her flowing through your veins–creeping under your skin and making its home in your mouth. You move with her, hungry for more, hands coming to rest at her waist as she pushes you harder against the wall, “what do you desire?” she murmurs against you, the heat of her body intermingling with your own.

Your answer comes out in a guttural moan as she presses a trail of kisses down your neck–allowing her hands to slip under the hem of your shirt. Warm flesh against warm flesh, fingertips dancing over the heat of your skin, daring lower and lower with each agonizing second until you feel her tugging at your waist band.

Heat pools in the pit of your stomach, and you writhe against the wall as Irene slides down to her knees in front of you.

“Tell me what you desire,” she commands, dark eyes fixated on yours with an intensity that both excites and scares you.

You inhale, steeling yourself against her unwavering gaze, and meet her eyes with your own determined stare, “you.”

In a flash of movement she slides off your clothes, burying herself between your legs. The pressure builds slowly, intensely as she moves beneath you–lips and tongue ravenous against your core. You tangle your fingers in her dark hair, losing yourself to the feeling of the moment–to the feeling of her between your thighs. If it weren’t for the wall supporting your body, you would be on the ground in seconds.

She slides a hand up the front of your shirt as she continues kissing and nipping at the soft flesh of your inner thighs, you let your head fall back against the wall with a thud–thoughts leaving entirely as she wraps herself around you. Fills you with the intoxicating feel of her mouth–warm breath against warmer flesh.

She loses herself in you and the pressure builds; twisting and churning in your guts as she moves below you, deft fingers and tongue. The flames of the candles flicker and spark with the force of the energy building between you, stirring in the air, but you pay them no mind–lost to the feel of her. “Irene,” her name a prayer on your lips. The intensity grows, stretching the fabric of your sanity until the bubble bursts and you come undone.

The flames are snuffed out and you lean panting against the wall. Irene plants a trail of soft kisses up your bare arm as she stands, dotting them up your neck and the side of your face until finally her lips meet your own. The taste of you on her lips and tongue mingling with her own heady flavour–that same honey and wine. “We could be so much more,” she whispers against your lips, her thin frame leaning hard against yours as she catches her breath.

“Okay,” you agree, nodding. Thoughts swirling through your mind in a drunken haze.

“You want it too?” The hint of triumph is back, lighting her eyes from within–a cool glow in the depths of brown.

“I do,” you nod, mesmerized. “I want…all of it.” A smile stretches across her features, sending a chill rippling across your entire body.

–

Candlelight glows amber against the bare walls of the house, casting shadows around the room as you sit cross-legged on the floor, still vibrating with the rush of adrenaline.

A car pulls up in the driveway and you wait in silence with Irene as everyone else spills into the farmhouse, half delirious with sleep. “Irene, what’s going on?” Seulgi asks, slipping her coat off and taking a seat on the floor across from you. Joy, Yeri, and Wendy follow suit until you’re all in the same familiar formation that you have found yourself in over the past months together.

Irene waits for the chatter to die down, for silence to overtake the room once more, before she speaks. “What has always been our goal, since starting this coven?”

“Umm,” Yeri hums, eager to give an answer, “sisterhood?”

Irene smiles, “partly.”

“Just tell us, Irene, clearly you have the answer in your mind.” Seulgi states, a hint of frustration painting her tone with every syllable.

“Power,” Irene ignores Seulgi’s scowl and continues, “to unlock our full potential.”

“Our potential for what, exactly?” You feel yourself caught again as Irene and Seulgi glare each other down, both determined to see their end through. Ears piqued with interest, you listen and watch as the conversation builds to an argument.

“That’s the thing, Seulgi. The potential is unlimited–if we can truly unlock it, we’ll be unstoppable.”

“Is power alone really a goal? Shouldn’t you have an idea of what you want to do with it? Otherwise you end up just like those men that you so love to separate yourself from.”

“Power _is_ the ultimate goal,” Irene affirms, leaning forward, long hair falling in waves around her. “To whatever end. Power is freedom.”

Seulgi’s scowl deepens, the whispers of Irene’s implications settle into the knots in her brow. Joy clears her throat, voice slicing through the tension, “but how are we supposed to unlock that potential?”

“Sacrifice,” Irene grins, pleased with the question. The air in the room tightens, you can see Wendy and Seulgi’s shoulders tense at the word–at the images brought forth in their mind’s eye.

“I’m not going to be a party to murder,” Seulgi states, breaking the circle and standing over you. Her lips are set in determination but the glint of pleading in her eyes does not go unnoticed by you. “That’s what this is, Irene. It’s murder. No one is willingly going to sacrifice themself for you.”

“The sacrifice doesn’t need to be willing,” Irene shrugs.

“And if it doesn’t work? If you kill someone and nothing changes? These spells are old, Irene, but not foolproof.”

“It will work.”

“How can you be sure of that?” Selgi asks, leaning further towards the door with every word.

“Are you leaving?” Irene asks, voice flat and void of any emotion.

“If you are seriously thinking about doing this, then yes. I am not going to stand by and watch this happen.”

“You know, back in the old days when a witch would betray her coven,” Irene stands to face Seulgi, taking a step forward as Seulgi moves one back, “they would kill her.”

She grabs her coat from the floor in a rush, turning with one last glare, “it’s the 21st century, Irene.” She states, opening the front door, keys in hand. “And if any of you know what’s good for you,” Seulgi turns her attention to Wendy, who avoids meeting her glance, “you won’t let her do this. You won’t be a part of it.”

The door closes and the room is once again cast in a veil of silence–broken only by the distant noise of Seulgi’s vehicle as it roars to life and crunches over the gravel driveway as she leaves.

“What do we do now?” Wendy asks, her voice a whisper.

“We proceed,” Irene sighs, sitting back down and reforming the circle. You all shift in kind, swallowing up the spot where Seulgi had been sitting. “Unless anyone else has any objections?”

Nervous eyes glance around the room for a moment before Yeri deins to speak, “unlimited power?” She asks, eyes lit by the fire of curiosity.

“Unlimited,” Irene confirms with a nod.

“Who are we sacrificing?”

–

“Where are we going?” Mark asks, uncertainty lacing his voice with nerves, as you lead him by the hand towards the abandoned farmhouse beyond the trees.

“You’ll see,” you laugh, tightening your grip on him as he stumbles along behind you, footprints trailing through the thin sheet of snow on the ground. “It’s an adventure Mark, calm down.”

“O-okay,” he swallows his fear. It had taken very little convincing to get him to follow you out here. One brief apology over coffee, one chaste kiss, and he was back at your side like nothing had happened. His fear of change outweighs any sense of self-preservation; he was, as always, a creature of habit. A habit that once was leading him towards a banal future of days bleeding into endless days, now leads him towards certain destruction.

You flash him a smile in the dark as the trees give way to an open field, the farmhouse in the middle alight from within by the glow of hundreds of candles. The chimney bellows with smoke from the flames currently burning in the fireplace.

“Are you sure we’re allowed out here?” He asks, stopping you midstep with a gentle tug.

You spin to face him, hiding the annoyance in your eyes behind a veil of sympathy. “Mark, it’s fine,” you bring your hands to his shoulders, rubbing small comforting circles with the palms of your hands and the tension in his body melts at the familiar touch. “Live a little, will you?”

He nods, still uncertain and you offer him a small smile, “if you’re that afraid, we can go back home.”

“No,” he responds quickly, feeding into the challenge you had presented knowing he would fall right into it, “it’s fine. I’m not scared.”

“Good,” you grin, planting a small kiss on his cheek. “There’s absolutely nothing to be afraid of, it’s just an old farmhouse.”

Mark nods again, the fear in his eyes still present but his mouth is set in a tight line of determination. You smile at the sight and tug him along behind you, stepping ever closer towards the abandoned building. The planks of the old wrap-around porch creak and groan under the weight of your bodies when you step foot on them and Mark winces at the noise, timid.

You hear Mark breathing beside you, shaky and unsure, as you step towards the front door; stepping out of the way, gesturing for Mark to open it. His fingers clasp onto the cold metal door handle at the exact moment that the door is flung open wide by Joy. She shoots him a devilish grin as you plant yourself behind Mark and shove him through the entryway.

“Hey!” He yells, confusion a vice grip around his throat. His eyes fly open wide in a panicked daze as he thrashes out against the arms encircling him. With a yell, Wendy brings the pan she was yielding down hard on the top of Marks head. His eyes widen for a moment before he slumps against you unconscious.

“Get him on the table,” Irene orders as she stands in front of the fireplace–bathed in the glow of the flames.

The four of you do as she says, hoisting Mark up by his limbs and dropping him with a dull thud on top of the old kitchen table.

“God he’s heavy,” Yeri pants as she lets go of his right leg, rubbing her hands dramatically over the front of her dress as if to bring some circulation back into them.

“Tie him down,” Irene commands, handing you a length of rope. You wind it tightly around his arm, following Joy’s instructions as to how to knot it to keep him in place. Consciousness slowly begins to return to the boy and he tugs and squirms against the chafing ropes on his skin.

“____, what’s going on? What are you doing?” He begs for an answer. A twinge of guilt plucks at your heart as you look down at him, lying helpless and cold on the table–his shirt having been torn unceremoniously off in the process of tying him down.

“Mark, it’ll only be worse if you struggle,” you say, a small platitude offered with the last remaining drop of your compassion. He pays it no heed and continues to writhe and pull against the restraints, but Joy’s technique holds him fastened tight to the wooden farm table.

“Shouldn’t we like…sedate him or something?” Yeri asks, standing a few feet away from Mark, an expression of mingled concern and disgust painting her delicate features. “I mean, won’t people hear the screaming?”

“Screaming?” Mark asks, wide eyed and unfocused, body stilling for a brief moment as he whips his head around the room. “______, please tell me this is all some sort of prank, please.”

You refuse to meet his gaze, watching instead as Irene unsheathes the ceremonial dagger–sharpened to a thin edge for the occasion. “We can’t sedate him,” she says, matter of fact, “it will mess with the ritual.” She makes her way to the edge of the table, drawing the dagger over the air above Mark’s heaving chest–a pattern of symbols in the air. She repeats the pattern three times, a quiet mantra on her lips, as you watch. The light of the candles bounces off her skin and casts her in a mesmerizing glow–you find your eyes tracing the curves of her face, the gentle slope of her neck, while Mark tries desperately to pull your attention down towards him.

“______, please…” he breathes, pleading. Irene lowers the dagger, placing it on the table so the tip just barely juts into Mark’s bare skin, she gestures for everyone to form a circle around him and reaches out her hand towards you, interlocking your fingers with a smile. The rest of the girls link hands and with a deep breath you feel the thrum of power in your fingertips–winding around and through you like a ribbon.

“We invoke the strength of our mothers, and of our mother’s mothers, and of our mother’s mother’s mothers as far back as the lineage goes. We call upon them to bolster this blade and steady thy hand–to aim it straight and true. To loose the reins and bring our power to its full potential. So mote it be.”

“No,” Mark cries, panic escaping his eyes in a few salted tears that cling onto his reddened cheeks.

“So mote it be,” you repeat with Wendy, Yeri, and Joy. Your hands fall back to your sides and Irene picks up the cold dagger from the table, weighing it in her palm for a moment before raising it high above Mark. 

The dagger plunges down into Mark’s bare chest and you watch as his mouth opens in a silent scream–eyes flashing to you, helpless and wide like a deer on the highway in the headlights of an incoming semi truck.

He knows that it’s the end and is powerless to stop it.

Irene rips the dagger out and along with it comes a spray of bright red blood. It splatters over the stark white walls and beige furniture, a pop of colour against the monotony of the room. She smiles and hands the dagger to you–a rite of passage. You wrap your fingers around the silver handle and take a step towards his body, hands shaking with rage and power. Lifetimes of agency denied bolstering you in this moment–ancestry lifting your arm in the air and bringing it down again and again to sink into his yielding flesh.

The vacuum is gone and you can hear the screams now.

They pierce through the veil and settle in your eardrums, shaking the walls of the room with the sound and you can see Yeri and Wendy cringing at the deafening noise.

“Will someone shut him up, _please?_ ” Wendy cries, bringing her hands up to block out the boy’s wailing.

Joy rolls her eyes, unwinding the scarf from around her neck and thrusting the fabric into Mark’s mouth as he writhes on the table against his restraints. Blood floods out from the wounds on his chest and pools on the surface below him, staining the marble with red and dripping down onto the floor below. Joy and Wendy lean forward, silver thrift store chalices in hand, and collect some of liquid before it can hit the tile.

Irene reaches out to steady your hand before you can sink the knife into his chest once more. “Enough,” she says, levelling you with her steady gaze, “look.”

You lower your hand to your side, letting the dagger clatter to the hardwood floor. Following the other girls’ line of sight you look at Mark. Watching as his frantic writhing and wriggling comes slowly to halt. Watching as his breathing becomes laboured and heavy–as each inhalation wracks his body of any energy remaining in his pathetic frame.

Watching as the light fades from his eyes.

Silence descends on the room as the six of you stand in a circle around him, eyes trained on his lifeless face for a brief moment. Your chest heaves up and down from the exertion of thrusting a knife into his chest multiple times–but you feel _alive_. The adrenaline courses through your body, sending wave after wave of euphoria into your brain. A wide grin breaks out over your face and you turn to face Irene.

She looks at you in satisfaction, lifting her hand to brush a speckle of blood from the corner of your lips. Leaning forward, you capture her in a hungry kiss; wanting to taste her flesh against the metallic tang of blood on your mouth. She cradles your face in her hands as you move together in bliss–lust and adrenaline mingling in an intoxicating cocktail of emotion.

You pull away from Irene with a start as Yeri breaks the silence.

Her light, high laughter trills through the room–reverberating off the white walls and intensifying the headiness of the situation. Looking down at Mark’s lifeless body, you feel it bubble up in your chest, threatening to break loose. One look at Joy as she tries to hold in her laughter as well and your resolve wavers until you find yourself in hysterics.

Laughter fills the air as you all join in the chorus, dancing and twirling around Mark’s body as his blood continues to drip down into the chalices on the ground. Finally Irene puts a hand up to stop the revelry; the joyous sounds dissolve back into silence, but the air continues to vibrate with the energy of it. She over Mark to take a chalice from Joy, hoisting it into the air.

“We offer this sacrifice willingly. So consecrate this blood, lord, and bless us with power untamed. So mote it be.”

“So mote it be,” you repeat along with the other girls and watch as she brings the silver chalice to her lips and takes a deep drink–eyes closed in ecstasy. With a smile she hands the cup of liquid to you, nodding for you to drink.

A warm, coppery liquid greets your tongue–coating your mouth in the metallic tang of blood. It flows down your throat–sickly sweet–and blooms through your body in a burst. You can feel your skin crawl with the heady scent and feeling of it. Intoxicating and powerful.

Darkness swirls around the edges of your vision before bursting into light. Everything comes into sharp focus–intense in colour and texture. The room is thrumming with life–vibrating at the edges. You turn to Irene and stare in awe as her features begin to glow from within. An unearthly cast of light shining from beneath her milky skin and washing over you in a wave of warmth and intensity. Her fingers entwine with yours and you can feel every ridge, every line. The touch sends a shiver down your spine as you stand transfixed by her.

“Let’s go,” she smiles, tugging you out into the light of the moon and stars. The winter air is crisp and clear and you marvel at the sky as the lights above dance and shimmer in ways you had never before seen. Constellations swirl and reform before you, and you feel you can see time itself.

The sounds of Joy and Yeri tittering with laughter, dancing in their bare feet through the snow, surrounds you. Wendy’s joyful singing as she races around their bodies in a daze, enraptured but this newfound world. Irene pulls your attention back to her, her hand on your jaw.

“To whatever end,” she smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your lips before tugging you behind her as she runs into the trees. The trunks and branches shine in a flashing pattern–red and blue, red and blue. You watch the lights strobe, head swimming with images of fairies and songs, until a sound breaks through the daze; it pulls you back down to the present moment, shifting your atoms back to reality–loud and persistent.

Sirens.

“Irene,” you breathe her name, reaching out your fingers to clasp onto her hand. She stands stock still, watching as the police cars pull race down the driveway. Joy and Yeri scream in the distance, racing through the field away from the house.

“Seulgi.” The name is poison on her tongue, spoken like a curse.

“What do we do?” Fear filters through you, mixing into a dangerous cocktail of adrenaline in your bloodstream. She stands still, unmoving, and you tug at her arm insistently, “Irene, what do we do?” Her gaze is transfixed on the flashing lights–she neither moves nor speaks. You watch as one of the officers handcuffs Wendy and slides her into the backseat of one of the cars. The rest move forward, in a line of blue uniforms, and the fear moves into your throat–strangling you.

Everything was a mistake.

“Irene,” you turn her head to face you, boring your gaze into her eyes. “We have to go, we have to run.”

“We can’t,” she says, eyes glancing towards the slowly encroaching line–trapping you like deer. “I won’t let them take me, I can’t.” The sirens bleed through the darkness and you hear Joy and Yeri struggling against their own sets of handcuffs as they’re led back towards the cars. “To whatever end?” She asks, gaze suddenly alert and awake.

You nod, unsure, and she places one last kiss on your lips, before unsheathing the dagger from her thigh and racing towards the line of uniformed men. Watching in horror, you see her raise the silver dagger in the air–the blood stained metal shining in the moonlight. Heart in your throat, you watch as it clatters to the earth a few feet before she reaches the line. A shot rings out through the night. It pierces the air and sucks all the breath from your lungs.

Irene’s body falls in a heap to the snow covered ground and you fall to your knees with her–body drained of all magic, of all intoxication and enchantment. You’re left a void in the field, staring blankly ahead with tear stained cheeks as the handcuffs are clapped over your wrists.

–

The hum of the prison where you wait on remand is ever present and unrelenting. Silence and peace is an impossibility surrounded by hundreds of women in orange jumpsuits with hundreds of opinions. For the most part you maintain a silent existence; eating alone, reading alone, quietly following the commands of the guards as you await your trial.

The screaming only happens at night, when your dreams are plagued with the swimming, blood stained faces of Irene and Mark. Guilt ridden nightmares that prevent any true rest.

You follow behind the guard as she leads you towards the grey concrete visiting room, expression blank save for the hint of curiosity buried in your eyes. It’s been six months and the only visitors have been your mom and lawyer–who could possibly be coming to pay a visit to a delusional murderer?

The metal door clangs open and you see Seulgi sitting at the table, hands folded on the surface as she waits. “Hi,” she says, a small smile turning up the corners of her lip. You can’t tell if the expression is smug or welcoming, but you sit across from her anyway, lifting your hands so the officer can remove the cuffs from your wrists.

“Fifteen minutes, girls,” she gives the warning and heads off to stand at the side of the room–eyes glazed with boredom and disinterest.

“Hi,” you reply, voice flat. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear; the hair is lighter, dyed a caramel brown that suits her complexion. Her clothes are varying tones of soft neutrals–not a hint of black in sight. You suppress a small laugh at the difference from the last time you saw her in the abandoned farmhouse. “Have you seen any of the other girls?” You ask, breaking the awkward silence.

“Yeah, Wendy’s doing well. She’s got a good lawyer. Joy and Yeri…it’s hard to tell with them. They said they’re fine, so I’ll choose to believe it.”

“Why are you here?” You ask, tossing aside all pretense. Her eyes widen at the blunt question but she composes herself, “if you came to say ‘I told you so’, don’t bother.”

“I wasn’t…” she trails off, sighing. “_____, I know you think I hate you but that was never the case. I just didn’t want any of this to happen. I honestly just came here to see how you were doing.”

The defenses you had built up crumble down and you slump forward with a sigh, “I’m tired, but fine. It is what it is, I’ll accept my fate.”

“Have you been practising at all?” A sly smile turns up the corners of her mouth and its your turn to be surprised.

“No,” you reply, eyes wide.

“You should,” she shrugs, “it might help with the insomnia, at least. Look,” she says, fixing her gaze on yours, “I know it’s all tied into memories you would probably rather forget, but it was all real. What we could do…the conjuring of images and willpower. It’s all real. You have it in you, you can use it to make life at least,” she glances at the guard leaned up against the wall, “more bearable.”

You nod as she stands to leave, eyes trailing over the amulet around her neck. “Take care of yourself, _____.”

“You too, Seulgi.” She leaves, disappearing through the visitors entrance. You listen as her footsteps disappear down the hallway until the sound has all but disappeared, then raise your hands to be led back towards your cell.

Night descends on the jail, and you lay against your hard mattress–sleepless. The sound of your bunkmates snoring doing nothing to help the situation. With a deep breath, you close your eyes and visualize. A curtain of straight black hair, the scent of cinnamon and leather, dark brown eyes warm with the heat of flames. Irene’s image comes into your vision–hazy and disjointed at first, but slowly it materializes and solidifies until you can feel her breath against your neck.

You breathe deeply in the dark of your cell and feel her hand slip into yours.


End file.
